


your ailing heart and your criminal eyes

by jockohomo



Category: Le Comte de Monte-Cristo | Count of Monte Cristo - Alexandre Dumas
Genre: Abandonment, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Canon Compliant, Intoxication, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Power Dynamics, Sad Ending, Unhealthy Relationships, cad my boy..., i like being sad abt characters who no one else sympathizes w
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2020-03-13 13:36:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18942067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jockohomo/pseuds/jockohomo
Summary: Danglars leaves and Caderousse joins the army.Or, a final meeting to a romance that never really should have meant anything.





	your ailing heart and your criminal eyes

**Author's Note:**

> this is the first fic to be published for this ship. validate me and my poor taste.
> 
> warning for alcohol use/alcoholism, some pretty unhealthy relationships, and caderousse getting tossed to the curb. there's sexual content, but it's pretty much entirely glossed over and shouldn't be an issue. i know this might sound like dub-con, but i tried to make it pretty clear that it isn't, even if there are some problems present.
> 
> i know that danglars doesn't have a first name in the book, so i stole jullian from the anime adaptation. that is his name now.

Caderousse met with Danglars one last time.

The days following Edmond Dantès’ arrest had manifested themselves as an unpleasant blur in his mind. Initially, Caderousse had retreated back to his home and locked himself away with his only intent being to drink himself into a stupor and forget about the whole affair. He had not forgotten, of course. His wife was, with no loss on his part, not present; she had departed to visit with family as soon as word had spread to her that the _Pharaon_ had arrived in Marseilles, as she quite disliked Danglars and preferred to leave him and Caderousse to their own devices, and so he had spent most of his time in solitude. Danglars would stop by not infrequently with drinks and comforting words — more condescension than comfort, in retrospect — and he would sometimes pay a visit to his unfortunate neighbor, old Dantès, but he was otherwise submerged in isolation.

Of course, one can only survive in such a state for so long. Caderousse was only willing to run a certain distance from the outside world and all its problems, and so he selected to return, to continue his work and tolerate La Carconte upon her return — and return she did, although she was disappointed by Danglars’ continued presence and preferred to spend as much time as possible away from the home to lessen her chances of happening upon him. Just as before, this was no loss to Caderousse.

Still, the arrest left a bitter taste in his mouth and a sharp twisting in his guts. He had not always been so quick to fall back to alcohol for comfort, not before Danglars had discovered that that was how he preferred those he bedded, but now he embraced it. Not to the same extent as immediately after Dantès was taken away, naturally, but every so often he would bring out a bottle and see how much he could stomach. Usually he was alone in these instances, and so usually he was even more miserable than before.

This was how Danglars found him, well started on the road to senselessness but still a ways away from his intended destination. He had apparently become accustomed to seeing Caderousse in such a state, because he didn’t yet bother to admonish him.

“Bonaparte has returned,” he announced anxiously, sliding into the chair opposite his companion.

Caderousse smiled miserably into his glass. “That is all you ever talk about, now.”

“That is all there is to talk about.”

“To the contrary.” His eyes met Danglars’ across the table. “Neither of us are of strong political opinion, are we? What does it matter to us? Unless, of course — ” he coughed — “you think our old friend will be released.”

Danglars’ mouth twitched powerfully. “Do not _joke_ about that.”

“Joke!” Caderousse laughed and took a messy swig from his glass. It was proving to be quite a difficult task to force his tongue into motion. “It was no joke, Jullian. You were the one who told me not to bring the farce to the authorities, were you not? You said it would only serve to hurt me — well, to hurt us, rather, or to hurt you — but look at the thing now! What irony!”

“How many times must I tell you not to _call_ me that,” Danglars snapped, indignant and fearful. “Use your head, Caderousse, addled as it is, and you will realize that I never had any intentions other than to protect your wellbeing and mine. I could not possibly have known of his return. Do not blame me for this.”

“To protect our wellbeing!” That earned another laugh from Caderousse. “Yes, I am sure that was your intention when you wrote that damned letter.”

Danglars scowled. “It was a _jest_ , you blathering fool! You know as well as I that I cannot control what Fernand chooses to do with the jokes of others.”

“No, not control, but you certainly can _influence_. You have influenced me.”

“Do not use me to excuse your own shortcomings,” Danglars snapped back. “These are delusions. You have created this false idea of my character because you need someone to blame for what befell Dantès. Well, Caderousse, I refuse to be your scapegoat. I will tell you again, I had no hand in that misfortune, not of my own volition. Why, what do I stand to gain with the boy gone? You seemed ready enough to believe me before. What has happened since then?”

“I have _thought_ since then.” Caderousse spat the words out and wiped his mouth on his sleeve, his gaze sharp and sorrowful. “Because I do think sometimes. I am not entirely the fool you see me as, and I do not much like seeing good people punished for the spite and envy of others.”

“Well, you had best get used to it,” Danglars muttered, “because that is all the world is.”

“You say that as if you have been _wronged_.” With that, Caderousse buried his face in his hands and gave a low noise somewhere close to a sob. His teeth, white and blade-like, drew themselves mournfully over his lower lip. “Have you been wronged, Danglars? Have you suffered greatly, have these past years harmed you so deeply?”

Danglars’ lip curled. “I am of the belief that any time wasted is a grave injury, my dear Gaspard, but that is quite beside the point. As it stands, you are far too sober. Allow me to amend this fault.”

Caderousse bowed his head at this, struggling to string words along into a response until he lost sight of what he was seeking to say. Suddenly, there was a fluttering in his stomach, a clenching in his jaw, and he became aware that Danglars had, at some point, risen from his seat and made his way around the table to stand beside him. He became doubly aware of the hand on his shoulder, the breathing that rustled at his hair, the warmth that was presented to him so nearly within reach. It was sickening.

Danglars’ hand snaked around his shoulders until Caderousse’s head was quite well pressed against his hip. His voice had lowered considerably. “Come now, my man. Look at you — you are hardly able to speak. Clearly, your own guilt and wine have made you quite incoherent. Drink some more, and you will be rid of the former.” He took the glass into his own hand and pushed the lip to those of Caderousse. “Drink.”

He obeyed.

Danglars returned the glass to the table after a not short amount of time. Caderousse, for his own part, gasped for air and wiped the wine from his face; Danglars had neglected to be careful not to spill it down his chin.

The man in question reached down to swipe his thumb over the offended area, holding himself with all of the air of a disinterested father wiping drool from an infant’s mouth. Smirking, he muttered, “You are a mess, plain and simple. What would you do without me, hm, Gaspard?”

Caderousse opened his mouth to reply — what he was planning on saying, exactly, he was unsure of — and Danglars took the opportunity to repeat the task again. When he set the glass back down for the second time, Caderousse was spluttering.

“What in hell’s name has gotten into you, Danglars?” he growled unevenly. “You are not normally so… You are not always like this.”

Danglars shrugged. “Refer to it as a finale, if you will.”

Caderousse blinked slowly. “I do not understand.”

“Yes, you are not capable of it,” came the smug reply, “and you should not try to comprehend what you cannot, my dear. Pay it no more mind. Listen to me and you will be fine. That is how it always is with us.”

“I suppose so,” Caderousse mumbled, evidently forgetting his own misery and vexation. He vaguely perceived a sharp breath from Danglars and then he was being forced to drink again.

This time he was left hardly a moment to breathe before the other man had clutched his shoulder and stooped down to kiss him. It did not last long, as if Danglars was embarrassed of his touch, and it was exceedingly rough and domineering, as if Danglars was too insecure of his own masculine nature to allow for a moment of tenderness. Both of these things were true, Caderousse supposed.

It had not always been so. Danglars had always been embarrassed and he had always been insecure, try as he might to deny it or act otherwise, but Caderousse knew him better than that; once, though, Danglars had been a younger man freshly from the countryside, lodging tentatively with his new companion until he found his own place to stay, and it had been Caderousse kissing _him_ , it had been Caderousse speaking quiet words and taking him by the hand late into the night. He had been unsure about a lot of things then, and Caderousse had taken it upon himself to offer his services. At some point, Danglars had apparently discovered that it was more than his ego could take — not only to have an affair with another man but to take up a submissive role in such a relationship — and had become obsessed with control.

He had not taken measures to rid himself of Caderousse, though. For his part, Caderousse liked to image that it was affection; sometimes, however, he wondered. He tried his best not to.

Danglars pulled away and drew his sleeve over his mouth. “Is that what you wanted?”

“Yes,” Caderousse managed out hoarsely, raising a hand to grip at the hemming of Danglars’ shirt. “Please.”

“Well, if you want it again, I suppose you will just have to — ”

Caderousse moved his hand to the fabric of Danglars’ collar and, before he could finish his sentence, tugged him back down and kissed him again. He was hardly any good at it drunk (he was surely smearing saliva or wine or something all over Danglars’ mouth at this rate), but if the other man was bothered, it did not show.

Danglars drew away, straightened his back, and gave Caderousse a once over. There was something wild barely restrained in those eyes. “Get up.”

He attempted to rise and immediately stumbled; Danglars, in turn, moved to support him, smiling noticeably at the show.

 _Damn if he did not intend for that to happen,_ Caderousse thought and forgot instantly.

Danglars led him to the bed.

Such was the prevailing arrangement between the two of them. It had happened almost as soon as Danglars made his evident decision to pry the reigns from Caderousse’s hands and force their relationship under his own control; he had mentioned (so offhandedly, too offhandedly, it seemed now) that he had an interest in getting Caderousse inebriated and seeing how he enjoyed their nighttime activities in that state of mind — with prior agreement, naturally.

(The answer was a complicated one; personally, alcohol did nothing to help the experience for Caderousse — if anything, he rather missed remembering the majority of the experience the morning after it was over — but he could tell it pleased Danglars to have him in such a state, and that alone did a number on him.)

It had continued after that. Caderousse had not been inclined to excessive drinking before, even if he was by no means devoted to temperance, but it became something close to a pastime when Danglars requested it. Eventually Caderousse introduced Danglars to M. Pierre Morrel and talked him up to the man enough to secure his friend a job as supercargo; his consumption was highest by far when he was at Marseilles in between voyages. He never really regretted it afterwards — he knew well enough what was happening when the bottle was brought out and judged accordingly ahead of time — but sometimes he wondered what it meant that Danglars seemed to prefer him when he was too drunk to be of any good to anyone. He tried to ignore this, as well.

The taste of Danglars’ fingers was still on Caderousse’s tongue when they finished, and Danglars was wiping his fingers off on his trousers as he pulled them back on. It was far too early out for him to be taking his leave, surely, and Caderousse’s mind was a degree clearer than it had been before. He watched Danglars go about this with great fondness.

“My dear,” he murmured, propping himself up against a pillow, “where are you headed in such a hurry? It is still not dark out. Usually you at least stay the night.”

“I am afraid I cannot afford you the privilege of that now.” Danglars began fastening his buttons. “I have an engagement.”

“With M. Morrel?”

“Not quite,” Danglars announced. “You see, I have been offered a new position elsewhere.”

Caderousse raised an eyebrow. “And where is that?”

“I cannot tell you that. It is in another country.”

It was quiet after that. Caderousse struggled to comprehend that statement, spoken so easily as if Danglars had announced that they were in need of milk or eggs. He gaped dumbly for a moment.

“Let me join you, then.”

Danglars shot him an ironical glance. “You jest.”

“I do not,” Caderousse protested. “I am a tailor. One can be a tailor anywhere. I am not so attached to Marseilles as you imagine; it is too hot, and besides, it is depressing with Edmond as he is. La Carconte will not protest too heavily. If she does, she can stay, for all I care. Just take me with you.”

“I cannot.”

“Please.”

“I cannot!” Danglars insisted. “It is an impossible thing. I wish to pursue this new career without any old ties to keep me back. It will do me no good to associate with you after I make my departure.”

Caderousse flinched.

He should have seen this coming, he supposed; Danglars had always been an outsider to Marseilles from the moment they met, and he had quickly established that he had hurriedly made leave of his family in the countryside (some collection of poor farmers that he disdained) to make a fortune elsewhere. When he had taken a brief apprenticeship with Caderousse, it was only to establish himself a temporary job; when he had enrolled as supercargo on the _Pharaon_ , it had only been a stepping stone to some higher role. Danglars carried with him the constant visage of a man who believed himself too good for his surroundings, his upbringing, his role, his friends; he had an idea formed already of who he was to be and where he was to find himself, and life until then was only a means to an ends, just as much as the people he encountered on the way there. He never would have stayed there, in all likelihood. Maybe he would never be satisfied elsewhere, either.

“And what of me?” Caderousse pleaded finally. “You said it yourself, God only knows where I would find myself with you gone. I do not know what I would do. I would die, perhaps, or at the very least be quite sad.”

Danglars shrugged. “That is no responsibility of mine. What you do is up to you. It is not my fault you love me too much; it is your own.”

“My own fault for loving!” Caderousse exclaimed bewilderedly. “And after all you have done to me!” He sniffled. “I allowed you to marry me off to that wretch of a woman because you wanted a convenient cover for our relationship when you yourself refused to marry. You call me a drunkard. Why am I so? Because you asked it of me. Now you have made me watch my friend accused of treason, dragged off to God knows where! You have transformed my life — why, you have made it unrecognizable! _I_ am unrecognizable! You entered my life and wrought this. Do you only want to leave it, now that you have made me miserable?”

“I have not made you miserable!” Danglars snapped. “You allowed yourself to be changed. I am not your keeper, Caderousse. I have done what I pleased; you should have done the same. I cannot control you, and if I have influenced you, it was because you let me.”

“Because I let you!” Caderousse cried, sitting upright. His head spun. “Fine, then! Fine; I see you do not care for my love for you. But what of what I have done for you? It is I who gave you somewhere to stay when you first came to Marseilles; it is I who employed you for a brief time even though I had no reason to, and it is I who got you your position with M. Morrel. I have given you all I possibly could. Does that mean nothing to you? Was that really such a waste of your time?”

“It was nothing I could not have achieved on my own,” Danglars replied coldly. “Do not exaggerate yourself. And besides, you cannot expect to be repaid for every good deed you have done. Only idiots expect that. This is how the world is, Caderousse, and I am doing you a favor to teach you so.”

Caderousse gave a sob and buried his face in his hands. Danglars had never been quite warm or affectionate in the years they had known each other, but this was altogether out of left field. He could not imagine what Danglars hoped to achieve by this behavior except to arouse this distress from him, but he hated to imagine _why_ Danglars would hope for such a thing. Had his own attitude proven too obnoxious? Was he looking for someone else to ruin, as he had ruined Dantès? Did it give him some gratification to crush him further, to destroy the life of someone who had once been happy? Was he _jealous_ of him for something? Had Caderousse been too amiable once, or too content, and had he earned his wrath for it? Was it simple, senseless hatred?

“Are you doing this to hurt me?” he asked, helplessly.

“Of course not,” Danglars scoffed. “What you feel is immaterial to me. It astounds me to think that you ever deceived yourself to believe otherwise.” He started towards the door.

“Is that it, then?” Caderousse sobbed, dragging himself to face Danglars. “Is that all? Will I have so little to remember you by?”

Danglars stopped briefly and gave him a look that he could not decipher. Finally, he procured a red handkerchief from his pocket and tied it around the neck of the wine bottle abandoned on the table. “There,” he announced, “you may use it to dry your tears. You are attractive when you play the fool, but one does not need to be sad to be stupid. You will tire yourself out far too quickly.”

Caderousse hardly took notice of it. “You will miss me someday. You need me as I need you, even if you do not know it. You will regret this, I swear it, and you will ruin yourself someday.”

Danglars laughed. “I will do no such thing.”

“We have spent so much time together! Does it all mean so little to you?” Caderousse attempted to stand and felt his knees hit the floor. He groaned painfully. “Please. You cannot possibly leave me like this.”

“I can — and I will, since you will not let me leave you in any other way.” Danglars turned away. “Goodbye, Caderousse. Give Edmond Dantès my regards if you ever hear word from him.”

“Please, Jullian,” Caderousse gasped, reaching a hand towards the man’s silhouette. His vision blurred. “I love you. You know that. You have known that. Please stay, Jullian, please, I — if I have injured you, then I am sorry, but if there is anything I can do…”

The door swung shut. Caderousse retched onto the floor.

Danglars left the country, then, as he said he would, and was no longer heard from. Caderousse joined the army in short order. They did not meet again.

**Author's Note:**

> the title is taken from 'kissing the lipless' by the shins !!
> 
> https://gaspardcaderousse.tumblr.com/ (url change! all my other non-dn fics have been edited appropriately.)


End file.
